Page 5 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

September—Present Time

In my car, the GPS chirps instructions like this is just another drive—not a slow march into enemy territory.

Having Dorian’s home address feels invasive. Not for him, for me. I didn’t choose this.

I’m about to lift the curtain on his private life, and it seems wrong . Not that I expect piles of laundry in the corner or a fridge covered in takeout menus.

But anything involving Billie Rae might crush me.

My mind races with unwelcome images of Dorian and Billie Rae’s picture-perfect life from back in the days when I could still follow it on social media without feeling like my heart was being carved out of my chest with a spoon.

I hope she’s out of town. I didn’t even check.

If I knew for sure, maybe I could stop freaking out.

But if she’s there, I won’t survive seeing them all over each other.

Or maybe the sight will cure me of my unhealthy obsession—burn the fantasies in my head and release my heart from the hold Dorian has on it.

The GPS instructs me to keep in the left lane, and I entertain the idea of taking a wrong turn, of getting myself lost in the Hollywood Hills. But that would only delay the inevitable.

With every yard I cover, my car seems to shrink, the air pressing in denser.

As Dorian’s gates come into view, the professional in me shouts to treat this like any other client meeting.

The rest of me wonders if I’m about to be leveled by a smile.

Or will he act differently with Billie Rae present?

What if he behaves the same because he’s that charming with everyone and I was no one special?

The possibility that the connection I’ve obsessed over for the past year is nothing more than a standard interaction for him stings. It’s a reality check I desperately need, but one I’m not ready to face.

After a routine pass through security, I steer my car along the circular driveway, feeling dwarfed by the sheer size of his estate. The house has a bold geometry and sleek surfaces, easily the size of my entire condo building.

Following the guard’s instructions, I pick a random spot in the front yard and kill the engine. Bag in hand, I head to the front door, craning my neck at the stunning architecture and manicured grounds.

A uniformed housekeeper greets me at the entrance, her polite efficiency a stark contrast to the nerves jangling under my skin.

She leads me into the foyer—stylish but more lived-in than I imagined—and points me to the living room without specifying if that’s where the meeting will take place or if Dorian has a dedicated home office.

As I cross the hall, I hear the faint strumming of a guitar.

I follow the melody, stepping into a spacious, open-plan room the size of a mini apartment—I hesitate to call it a mere living room—and there he is.

Dorian is perched on a low couch, his guitar balanced on his knee as he scribbles on a music sheet laid out on the coffee table and goes back to playing.

Seeing him lost in his creative process steals the air from my lungs.

I stand frozen in the doorway, caught between awe and panic.

This is worse than if I’d walked in on him kissing his wife.

Because as of now, I’m not getting cured—the opposite.

Seeing him like this, absorbed in his music, with the late-morning sunlight casting a golden glow over his tousled hair, feels far too intimate.

My mind goes blank, grasping for the right way to announce my presence without shattering the magic of the moment.

Do I clear my throat? Knock? Or wait for him to notice me?

Or do I melt into the walls and disappear?

He’s alone. Clearly, I’m the first one here and should wait somewhere else while the rest of his team arrives.

Fleeing seems like the best solution. I back away, but my bag bumps the doorframe with a soft thud.

Dorian’s head snaps up, his icy-blue eyes lock with mine, and his face splits into a smile so bright I might actually need sunglasses.

“Morning,” he says, his fingers still idly plucking at the strings, like my arrival hasn’t thrown his rhythm at all.

I scramble to summon a professional tone, but stammer a weak, “M-morning.”

Dorian sets his guitar aside with a fluid motion, like the instrument is another limb for him, and rises from the couch.

I stare as he approaches me, his smile never wavering. As he closes the distance, the walls seem to advance on me, too. Why is every space getting smaller today?

“I’m glad you found the place. The GPS can be tricky around here.”

And why does his voice sound so good?

I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t appear as brittle as I feel. “Oh, my GPS was in a good mood—it nailed all the turns.” Damn it!

I glance over the room, desperate for a distraction, and my eyes land on the music sheets scattered across the coffee table.

Dorian follows my gaze and gestures for me to sit. “Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”

I perch on the edge of a sleek armchair, clutching my bag in my lap like a shield. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

As he settles back onto the couch opposite me, I notice the faint smudge of ink on his fingers, from writing lyrics or chords.

It’s an insignificant detail, but it rearranges something inside me, a subtle displacement I can’t explain.

This is real. Dorian Phoenix, in the flesh, sitting mere feet away from me, composing the next Favorite Rock Song of the year. And I’m supposed to… what?

Work.

I’m here to work, even if I shouldn’t be. Really, I’m not the best person to manage his public image. I open my mouth, ready to suggest that he might be better off working with someone more experienced, more suited to?—

“Don’t,” he says, cutting me off before I can even begin.

I blink, astonished. “Don’t what?”

His eyes spear me. “Tell me I should work with someone in the celebrity division. I don’t do well with new people.”

My stomach flip-flops. So much for finding an escape hatch. How did he know what I was thinking? Am I that transparent?

“I wasn’t going to say that,” I lie, and the skeptical quirk of his eyebrow tells me he’s not buying it. “But you know, I’m not a celebrity PR expert.”

“Good. I don’t need one. I just want someone who doesn’t bullshit me. Besides, Missy speaks highly of you. She says you’re quick on your feet and you’re not afraid to tell it like it is.”

While it’s nice to hear a colleague’s positive opinion of me, it’s counterproductive in my situation. “She said that?”

Dorian nods, leaning back and draping his arm along the frame of the couch. “Yep. I trust her judgment, and I trust you . So, here we are.”

Here we are, indeed.

I order the butterflies in my stomach to quiet down. “Okay, well, I appreciate the vote of confidence. I’ll do my best to live up to it.”

“I’m sure you will.” His gaze lingers on me, and heat rises to my cheeks.

The sound of loud voices coming from the foyer startles me.

Dorian rises to his feet. “That’ll be the team. Come on.”

I stand as well, smoothing the skirt of my dress with clammy hands. I’ve met with clients and their associates countless times before. This is no different. Except it is, because this is Dorian.

A moment later, a parade of people spills into the living room.

A man in an expensive suit with a flashy watch and dyed dark hair leads the charge.

He greets Dorian with a quick nod, suggesting a long-standing familiarity.

Must be his agent, Victor Langston. I identify the others from the brief I was given this morning that I only had time to skim-read.

The next arrival is a tall man with graying hair and an air of perpetual stress. His phone is glued to his ear as he mutters something about tour dates clashing—Grant, the tour manager, then.

Following him is a young woman in a hoodie, ripped jeans, and sneakers, who can only be Bailey, the social media manager.

A brunette in a stylish power suit who gives off lawyer vibes.

And finally, another woman breezes in, wearing a blue dress and ankle boots.

She seems to hold the reins of the others and must be Dorian’s personal assistant, Tessa.

Dorian glances toward the group, then back at me, still smiling. “Perfect timing, everyone. We can move to the office.”

I blink. At least he doesn’t host his meetings on the couch. That’s good. A more professional setting will help me stay focused.

“This way,” Dorian says, his words directed at me; the others seem familiar with the house’s layout. He leads us out of the living area and into a wide hallway adorned with abstract art.

The group of professionals fall into step behind him, chattering in a low hum. I follow, tightening my fingers around the strap of my bag, resigned to adventure further into Dorian’s world. Each layer I peel off causes more trouble for me. At least Billie Rae is nowhere to be seen yet.

As we enter the office, I wish I could stay cool, but I mostly gape at the framed platinum disks gleaming on the walls and the rows of awards lining the sleek bookshelves.

The room is awash in natural light, sunrays pouring through the large French doors that open on to a meticulously landscaped garden with an Olympic-size pool glittering in the distance.

In the center of the room, a massive square white table dominates the space. I wait for the others to sit, not wanting to steal anyone’s usual spot, and am relieved when the last free seats end up being not too close to Dorian.

I sneak a glance at him lounging back in his chair, completely at ease, wishing I could feel the same.

The others pull out tablets and laptops.

I grab a simple notepad and start scribbling, Rian Phoenix client meeting at the top of the page with my mechanical pencil.

My hand trembles, ruining my already crooked lettering and sparking a surge of irritation.

His proximity is short-circuiting my neurons and giving me actual fucking tremors.

Tessa, seated next to Dorian at what would be the head of the table if it weren’t a square, clears her throat and calls for attention. “We all know the priority today.” I’m still scribbling when Tessa continues, “How to break the news of Dorian’s divorce.”

The sound of my pencil lead snapping is embarrassingly loud in the sudden silence. I freeze, staring at the jagged point that’s pierced through the next sheet of paper. My heart pounds as I glance up, sensing Dorian’s stare on me.

I meet his eyes and his mouth curves into a slow, infuriatingly confident grin. Then he winks. Dorian I’m-Getting-a-Fucking-Divorce Phoenix just winked at me.